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to a grotto sacred to Pan. The ponds, dug out at such great expense, offer their leaden waters to the swans in vain, and the woods no longer echo with the horns of the Condé huntsmen or flash with the colour of their habits. To-day there is no direct road to Ermenonville; sometimes I go by Creil and Senlis, and sometimes by Dammartin. I never go to Dammartin until evening, so I spend the night at the Image Saint Jean, where they give me a room with old tapestry upon the walls and a pier-glass hanging between the windows. Beneath an eiderdown coverlet, with which one is always provided in that part of the country, I sleep warmly, and in the morning, through an open window framed by vines and roses, I survey with delight a green expanse of twenty-five miles. The poplars look like lines of soldiers, and here and there villages shelter beneath their pointed church towers. First there is Othys, then Ève, then Ver; and I could find Ermenonville in the forest, if it had a tower, but in that retreat of philosophers the church has been neglected. I breathe deeply of this pure upland air, and set forth to the confectioners shop. Hello, Curly-head! Hello, little Parisian! And after a friendly hand-clasp, I run upstairs to be welcomed by shouts of joy from the two children and by Sylvies delighted smile. I say to myself, Perhaps this is happiness! Still I sometimes call her Lolotte, and though I do not carry pistols, for it is no longer the fashion, she thinks me a little like Werther. While Curly-head is occupied in getting the lunch ready, we take the children for a walk through the avenue of limes that encircles what is left of the old brick towers of the château, and while they are playing with their bows and arrows we read poetry or a page or two from one of those short books that are so rare nowadays. I forgot to say that I took Sylvie to the performance at Dammartin, and asked her whether she thought Aurelia resembled someone she knew. Whom do you mean? Dont you remember Adrienne? What an idea! she exclaimed, and burst out laughing, but then, as if in self-reproach, she sighed and said, Poor Adrienne, she died at the Convent of Saint S about 1832. Translated by James Whitall. |
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